


La Petite Mort

by Trixen



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 05:27:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4693778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trixen/pseuds/Trixen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wesley's funeral brings Buffy back from Rome...</p>
            </blockquote>





	La Petite Mort

_Like a hot field ready for plowing._ He said those words to her, as her back was being scraped by brick and his hands were bluntly spreading her legs. She felt his penis, slick and painful, and the words slipped over her head, as poetry (and it was poetry, she found out later from Willow) tended to do. His voice was dry, steady, and she remembers that she felt strangely offended, because usually she brought men to their knees. But his eyes were filled with another and the funnel of smoke belching from the chimney was choking her and so she had sex with him as quickly as she could. It didn’t take him long. A few girlish pants from her pink mouth and he was shuddering against her. One of his hands was bleeding along the knuckles.  
  
Buffy stands at the edge of the service, thinks she can still taste that blood between her lips. Los Angeles is burning. She can see smoldering remains from their place on the hill. Ribbons of fire. It reminds her of that awkward coltish walk through Sunnydale, after Heaven, when she was stumbling in an upside-down world. She is still furious they didn’t call her. Now she has been left with nothing to _do_. Attending funerals doesn’t count, since the baddies have all been slain and she’s never been good at sympathy or comfort.  
  
“Thank you again for coming,” Angel says, his hand touching her back.  
  
“Yeah. Thanks,” Spike immediately breaks in, and grabs her arm.  
  
She shakes them off. “Could we save the tug of war for when we’re, oh I don’t know, say not at a _funeral_?”  
  
“He started it,” Angel mumbles.  
  
“Did not, you wanker.”  
  
“This day is about Wesley. The fact that I have to remind you of that will be filed under the category of ‘sad’,” she snaps.  
  
“You didn’t even know him,” Spike says, surprised. “What do you care?”  
  
She wants to blush, but she’s lost the ability. Instead she silences him with a look. Unconsciously, she leans into Angel, breathing in. She knows that something has changed between them, her two men, because they smell of _each other_ now, but she wants to forget that. And thousands of other things. Just for the day. Too complicated and she doesn’t have room for any of it. There is clean-up to be done, an operation to oversee and long hours to not think about Wesley. She shouldn't be wondering if the alleyway was burned to the ground, if the imprint of their bodies has been reduced to dust.  
  
She didn’t know it would happen when she walked into the bar and saw him. He reeked of grief and he was drinking whiskey. It was russet-gold and looked like autumn leaves. She asked for a sip, he laughed and gave it to her. He didn’t tell her about Fred, she found that out after his death. But she knew all too well the sight of someone who had _lost_. Who hadn’t been able to _keep_. And so she offered what she could. A few quips, a drinking buddy, visions of Rome, and when he took her outside and unbuttoned her pants, she didn’t say anything. His fingers sought her out but she was still dry, so he licked his thumb and explored until she clutched his shoulders and pressed her teeth against his neck. There was a hot crease there, and she tasted sharp male sweat.  
  
She remembers glancing over his shoulder, at the dumpster and the lost things washed up, as if the alley was a shore. There was a mirror with a gape down its center and it resembled a coffin, six feet tall and two feet wide. She could see her legs looped around his hips and the way his body was moving against hers, like he was desperate to hollow her out, climb inside. Her head slammed against the brick and with every stroke, she caught another glimpse of them floating, trapped in the mirrored space.  
  
“Like a hot field ready for plowing,” he whispered and she came, because the words were so beautiful, even if didn’t, _couldn’t_ mean anything. He was hurting her and she welcomed it, and when he left her there, the sperm drying on her legs, she felt like crying, for no reason at all. It was as if somehow, he had sown his sorrow into her, and the mirror cut her in two.

~Finis


End file.
